


Creatures

by dysphorie



Series: drabble drabble, bitch bitch [4]
Category: Motionless in White (Band)
Genre: Don't Ask Questions, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Hand Jobs, Size Difference, and ricky is a literal ray of sunshine, just read the pretty idiots being idiots, justin's just being fucking grumpy, reacharound, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: One band, many many horny simpletons. Just the stupid adventures of big stupid boys.
Relationships: Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Justin Morrow/Ricky "Horror" Olson, Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Ricky "Horror" Olson, Justin Morrow/Ricky "Horror" Olson
Series: drabble drabble, bitch bitch [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1488107
Comments: 43
Kudos: 29





	1. Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a "I'm gonna shit this out in an hour like I did with kinktober, just to get the idea out of my head, and it'll probably be like 800 words long". Instead I ended up with weeks of agonizing and 2k of what I HOPE is nice fluffy smut, and THEN it turned into "Hey why not make it a series!" So yeah, enjoy the ride!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Part of him feels like he should feel stupid; him, a huge lumbering goth-frat-bro fusion, being basically big spooned by a tiny, delicate, bird-boned androgyne. It shouldn’t make sense, it should be the other way around. But a far larger percentage of his brain doesn’t give a fuck."_  
>   
>  Or, Justin's in a bad mood, and Ricky's got just the thing to snap him out of it

“Fucking... _Chris_ , man, fuck him,” Justin seethes, slamming the bus door so hard the whole bus rattles. There’s a smashing sound but he’s too angry to care. He waits for a sigh, an annoyed grunt, _some_ sort of acknowledgement that he'd broken something in his stupid bad mood. Then he can unload on whoever’s unfortunately enough to try him, hopefully work out some of the anger that’s gnawing at his stomach.

The bus is silent though. There’s only one other person on it, curled up on the couch in the back, delicate nose buried in a book. Justin stares, waiting for Ricky to react to the ruckus.

Ricky doesn’t look up. 

Huffing loudly from his nose Justin turns and stomps around the front of the bus a bit, muttering under his breath. After a minute he chances a glance at Ricky from the corner of his eye.

No change.

Ugh. This isn’t how this was meant to go. He chews his lip as he looks at his bandmate, whose face he knows is carefully posed to only _look_ like he’s engrossed in his book, but really his attention is all on Justin. He’s just not willing to interact with him while he’s ranting and raving. Ryan would at least tell him to shut the fuck up. Even that would be something right now. But no. Ricky’s the only person here, and Ricky’s the only person that can be guaranteed to ignore diva behaviour. He’s known Chris long enough to know how to deal with that.

He could just leave, but...he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t at least hope a little that Ricky would be on the bus. That Ricky might be the _only_ person on the bus. Talking to him always helps calm him down without fail. With a deep breath, Justin slowly walks towards the couch.

“So I had another fight with Chris during lunch,” Justin says quietly, staring at the toe of his boot. 

Ricky immediately looks up, smiles a little as he tilts the book away from his face. “No, really? You and Chris _fought_ ?? But that _never_ happens!” Justin doesn’t miss the sarcasm practically dripping from Ricky’s every word, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite his mood. It’s hard to resist the little shit’s charm.

It doesn’t last though. His expression turns serious and grumpy again as he chews his lip, goes back to examining his boot. Justin _is_ legitimately concerned about how often Chris is picking fights with him these days. He’s barely been in the band five minutes and he gave up a _lot_ to be here; he really doesn’t want shit to go tits up just because the band has _two_ big bitches in it now.

Justin starts a little when he feels a warm hand touch his, and he grips it gladly, the satin softness that feels minuscule in his grip more soothing than he realised. Looking up, he sees that Ricky’s big blue eyes are staring at him in a way that makes him feel see-through. The guy doesn’t even need to open his mouth to get Justin to spill his guts. Just that sweet, earnest look on his face is enough.

“I’m just fed up with him nagging me, man,” Justin sighs. “It’s like nothing I do is right, or good enough or - or...I don’t fuckin’ know.” He trails off, shaking his head and looking at Ricky. For some reason he’s smiling. The fuck?

“Aww, poor baby,” he croons slowly with an exaggerated pout. Justin rolls his eyes, acting like he doesn’t turn to mush every time Ricky calls him any description of pet name. Even if he _is_ mocking him at the same time. "C'mere, babe," he says, patting his black-clad thigh with his free hand and pulling on Justin's hand. "Come sit with me."

Blinking, Justin holds steady and just looks down at Ricky. He can't be serious. Ricky weighs about fifty pounds soaking wet and Justin's...well, he's heavier, and not entirely convinced those skinny bird legs could take his muscled bulk.

Ricky tugs his hand again. 

Justin stays standing. "C'mon man, that's weird. Don't be weird." There's no way in merry hell Justin's putting himself through yet _more_ embarrassment. He's already had enough for one day what with Chris and his attitude, the last place he needs more from is his fucking boyfriend.

But Ricky's insistent, tightening his grip and pulling harder, and Justin can't resist that impish little smile. With an exaggerated sigh he turns around and gingerly lowers himself down, back turned, onto Ricky's skinny thighs. Instantly he feels enormous; his knees still sit high off Ricky's legs, feet firm on the floor, his broad thighs hiding Ricky's completely. It makes him feel huge and gawky, discomfort coiling in his stomach, and he's just tensing his muscles to stand back up when warm hands wriggle under his t-shirt to circle his waist.

You couldn’t pay Justin to put up a fight against Ricky right now. God, his hands are so soft. Strong but delicate, elegant, and they make Justin feel weak in a really nice way. Nimble fingers stroke the soft hair below his belly button, making Justin jerk when they slide towards his hips, dipping below the waistband of his pants to tickle the crease of his thigh. The contact is comforting in a way he didn't realise he wanted. Well, that's a lie. Justin knew he wanted comfort. That's why he came back to the bus knowing, _praying_ , that Ricky was the only one on board. Of course he did, knew it the second the stalked out of the venue. He just didn’t know he wanted... _this_ , the side of Ricky’s face comfortably pressed against his spine, occasionally turning to press soft kisses to the worn fabric of his hoodie. Justin purrs, growing more and more relaxed by the second. Part of him feels like he should feel stupid; him, a huge lumbering goth-frat-bro fusion, being basically big spooned by a tiny, delicate, bird-boned androgyne. It shouldn’t make sense, it should be the other way around. But a far larger percentage of his brain doesn’t give a fuck. Ricky makes Justin happy when it feels like nothing else can. That’s all that matters in the end. 

A few calm minutes pass before Justin realises: Ricky’s hands have shifted from where they were sitting, warm on Justin’s stomach, and unbuckled his belt, quickly making short work of the buttons of his fly. Then before he can stop it a hot little hand is pulling his dick out of his underwear, stroking it slowly with a loose grip, and Justin’s breath catches in the back of his throat in a heavy gasp.

“Ricky, you - you don’t need to -” he starts, but he cuts himself off with a wheezy moan. _Fuck_ , it feels so good, but Justin’s not certain it feels _right_ . He tries again. “You don’t need to do this, I’m - _uh!_ I’m fine....”

“Shut up,” Ricky murmurs, lips and breath warm through the fabric of Justin’s clothes. “Just relax and trust me.”

As he says that, Ricky tightens his grip for just a second, squeezes the head of his dick, and Justin’s eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, _fuck,_ Ricky…”

“That’s it, sugar, relax,” Ricky whispers, stretching to press a soft kiss onto Justin’s neck as he relaxes his grip again, goes back to stroking him slowly and lazily. It makes Justin shiver, he can feel it vibrate through the bony legs under him. He wants to tell him to stop. Really _should_ tell him to stop. Anyone could walk onto the bus at any moment; Ryan, Vinny...or god forbid, Chris. As if Chris needs more ammunition to make Justin’s life miserable. Like it’s somehow his fault that Chris and Ricky broke up. They were already old news before Justin even joined the band, for fuck’s sake. And it’s not like the guys don’t know they’re hooking up; it’s impossible to keep secrets when you’re living up each others assholes twenty-four-seven. He just can’t be bothered with the shit they’d both get if they got caught fucking about on the bus.

Ricky must’ve noticed Justin drifting off somewhere because he gives his dick a hard, far less pleasant, squeeze, jerking Justin back into the moment. _What the fuck, no Justin, this is NOT the time to be thinking about Chris ‘Cuntchops’ Cerulli!_ Shaking his head, he tries to concentrate again on the motions of Ricky’s hand. He’s tightened his grip again but he’s still keeping his speed slow and methodical. Clearly determined to drag this out as long as possible. Justin’s not sure how he feels about that, fear of getting caught still itching at the back of his mind.

In truth though, he doesn’t have the words or brainpower to describe how he feels right now. The longer Ricky strokes him, the longer he hums softly against Justin’s back, the less he thinks he cares about what anyone else might think. He looks down and immediately regrets it; the sight of Ricky’s tiny white hand wrapped tight around his cock making him feel like his eyeballs are gonna fall out of his fucking head. His long skinny fingers barely meet each other. Justin wants them in his hair, in his mouth, in his fucking asshole, he doesn’t care. He just wants more, _more_.

He must’ve said that out loud because Ricky presses hard on the tip with his thumb, through the precome starting to gather there, slicking it down the length and making slick wet noises as he moves. A soft cry escapes from Justin as he feels his orgasm start to build in the pit of his stomach. It’s too much. It’s too good. _Ricky’s_ too good. Makes his mind reel and his balls burn with the need to climax as soon as possible. The moans dripping out his mouth get louder and louder, and rather than shushing him Ricky just keeps up his low words of encouragement, tells Justin he’s amazing and perfect and deserves to feel this good every hour of every day. Justin just whines, getting closer and closer to falling over that delicious edge.

Throwing his head back, Justin stops trying to resist. The sob he lets out as he starts to spill over Ricky's hand is hoarse and loud, makes his head swim and his chest constrict but he doesn't fucking care. It's too fucking good for his body to handle, he'll explode if he tries to hold it in. Ricky works him through it faithfully, just like Justin knew he would, other hand gripping tight on his hip, whispering soothing sounds that Justin can't hear but he can feel, breath humid against his sweaty skin. He feels his own come warm through his shirt where it hit his stomach, and it feels like it’s never going to stop. His thighs are fucking soaked.

Eventually the stiffness of orgasm leaves his body, and he melts backwards into Ricky’s chest again, boneless. Slowly but surely the stars fade, and Justin starts to come back to himself. He always hated this bit; the shame that slams into him as the come cools on his skin. So he waits, breathes hard and heavy as he tries to get some air into his dusty lungs, fully expects it to hit him any minute now. 

It doesn’t. There’s none of that usual crushing guilt. Instead for once there’s just that blissful post-orgasm moment of clarity. He’s smiling, he’s relaxed, he’s happy. Ricky wipes his hand on the inside of Justin’s t-shirt before wrapping his arms around his waist again, squeezing tight. It presses the damp fabric against Justin’s stomach but he doesn’t care. Just folds his own arms over Ricky’s and hums happily to himself.

Eventually, Ricky breaks the silence. “We should probably get cleaned up before someone catches us.” Justin grumbles under his breath.

“I don’t wanna move though," he whines. "This is the first time I’ve felt relaxed in the past...I don’t know. Fuckin’...ages.” The sluggish tone of his voice and inability to form complete sentences makes Ricky giggle. Justin elbows him. 

Ricky sits up, looking towards the window from what Justin can tell. “Oh, I think I see Chris...looks like he’s heading over here!”

Justin nearly trips over his own feet stumbling towards the bus toilet, slamming the door on Ricky’s barking laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com


	2. Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ricky, I said what the fuck are you doing?”_
> 
> _Ricky finally turns to him, flicking his tongue across his teeth as he thumbs the head of his dick. “Isn’t it obvious, Chris?”_
> 
> _No. No it’s not fucking obvious._
> 
> Or, one bed, three horny simpletons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can blame bepreparedf0r hell for this, because her Motionless In White tryst fucking S E N T ME, and I heartily recommend you go read her stuff to find out exactly why! EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CREACHERS 4 LYF

“Oh fuck, _fuck, Justin,_ I -”

“I know baby, I know…”

Chris has been rocking his hips for what feels like forever, even though it’s only really been about ten, fifteen minutes. It’s just that time stands still when he’s got Justin’s dick in him, splitting him the fuck open like nothing else he’s ever felt. He wasn’t even that big a fan of bottoming until the big idiot came along, and now he loves nothing more than impaling himself on him and riding his bones into the mattress. 

This is the first opportunity he’s had in a while though, what with him and Ricky having to take turns. Justin’s in demand and well, there’s only so much to go around.

So he keeps up the motion, determined to get the very most out of the time he has with the green-haired goon. They’re sweating into Justin’s bed in the hotel room he’s sharing that night with Ricky, and even though Justin assured Chris repeatedly that Ricky’s going to be busy for ages, Chris still doesn’t exactly want to be caught _in flagrante._ It’s not that they don’t all know the situation, it’s just...Chris doesn’t like to be watched, or hurried, or particularly want Ricky to appear in the middle of them fucking. Total boner-killer. 

Justin’s hands suddenly tighten on his hips, hard enough that Chris knows he’ll bruise, and a long low groan spills out of him. That’s got to be a good sign, Chris thinks, and he preens a little to himself; sits up straighter, tosses his hair back out of his eyes and cards a hand through it while bracing himself on Justin’s chest with the other. He likes being on display like _this_ , when it’s just for the person he’s fucking. He’s a natural born performer, after all.

“Hey guys, am I interrupting?”

Chris whips around so fast he nearly falls over dizzy. It’s Ricky. Ricky’s standing there at the foot of the bed. Ricky, who wasn’t meant to be back yet. Who doesn’t seem shocked to see Chris and Justin together. 

“What -” he starts, and he tries to move, to swing himself off Justin and cover up because it doesn’t matter that Ricky’s seen him naked a million and one times, Chris wasn’t expecting this and he doesn’t want it and that makes him feel uncomfortable. Vulnerable. But he can’t. Justin’s big hands are clamped so tight on his hips that it hurts, and not really in a good way. Turning back to him, Chris’s eyes go wide as if to say _“What the fuck?? You said he wouldn’t be back!”_

Justin doesn’t say anything. Just smiles up at him dreamily, hazy and happy and _clearly_ not surprised by Ricky’s arrival. 

He turns back to Ricky, alarmed to see that he’s now unfastened his black jeans and freed his own dick, stroking it with slow movements. A shudder runs through Chris. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like not knowing what the hell is going on.

“What the fuck is happening, guys?” he barks, but Ricky just smiles wider and Justin lets out a low giggle as he shifts a little under Chris. He’s still hard, Chris notices, clearly enjoying the show his bandmates are putting on. Ricky walks towards the bed, slowly. His pointy little face has an expression that makes him look predatory. Chris has never seen it before, and isn't sure if he likes it. He tries again. “Ricky, I said what the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Ricky finally turns to him, flicking his tongue across his teeth as he thumbs the head of his dick. “Isn’t it obvious, Chris?”

No. No it’s not fucking obvious. Ricky’s here when he wasn’t supposed to be, when Justin said he wasn’t going to be, and Justin was obviously expecting it so they must have fucking planned this, and Chris isn’t here for any of it. But he can’t move because Justin’s holding him too tight and, if he’s perfectly honest, his body isn’t fighting that hard to get free. He just wants to know what is fucking happening in here, on this day.

Stopping beside the bed, Ricky turns back to Justin. “You ready baby?” he asks. Justin takes a deep breath and nods, smiling from ear to ear. Then Chris is gasping as those strong hands are sliding from his hips, moving up to grasp his biceps and yank him down, hard, against Justin’s broad chest. 

Then he’s wrapped in Justin’s arms, pinned against his body while he occasionally fucks up into him. God help him, it still feels amazing, even through the confusion and the reluctance and anger. Justin’s face is against Chris’s, stubble rough against his face as he grunts softly in his ear. _Fuck,_ it’s hot. But he can’t see Ricky anymore and that’s panicking Chris more than a little. There’s too much going on for him to think straight, so he doesn’t hear Ricky’s shuffling as he gets onto the bed, or the click of the bottle of lube being opened.

He _does_ , however, cry out loud and hot when a cold finger circles the cock already in his hole. It makes him catch his breath, and it doesn’t come back to him when that finger starts pushing in alongside Justin, who gasps, shocked by the cold and pressure. Chris knows because he is too. Ricky works it in and out and around, stretching Chris further open. It burns like ice.

Then there’s another finger and holy shit, Chris convulses. It’s too much, he’s too confused, and he doesn’t know what’s happening to him. Justin’s holding him so tight that he can barely breathe, and his rasping gasps drown out the soft _There, there’s_ Ricky’s whispering. Ricky’s other dry hand is running up and down his back, rubbing his muscles and it feels really nice, but it just adds to the onslaught of sensations piling onto Chris. Finally he manages to wiggle enough that he can look Justin in the face. His eyes are closed, mouth twitched up in a blissful little smile, and when he finally dopily looks at Chris he looks so serene and at peace that Chris nearly comes right there and then. Because he’d be a fucking liar if he said whatever the fuck was happening didn’t feel fucking incredible.

Then Justin’s leaning his head up, capturing Chris’s lips in a soft, searching kiss. Some of the tension immediately drains from Chris’s body, which is just as well because that’s when Ricky adds a third finger, and a fourth, fucking into Chris’s hole in time with Justin’s lazy thrusts.

“Just relax,” Justin whispers. “Let us take care of you…”

It drops into place. The opportunity to catch his breath brings startling clarity, and the weight of the situation drops hard into the pit of Chris’s stomach. _No. No no no._

He shakes his head. “No. No no no!”

“ _Yes,”_ Justin whispers, kissing him again. Chris whines, sobby and loud, begs _no no no_ quietly over and over.

Then Ricky’s hand is on one hip, the other presumably around his dick, because he’s pushing the head against Chris’s hole, and Chris has never felt anything like it. A wail gets caught in his throat, lips still fastened to Justin’s, swallowing his gulped gasps as Ricky slowly but surely stretches Chris further open than he ever thought possible. And he does it in deathly silence, not a single noise coming from him, until he’s buried into the hilt. Then he exhales, quiet but strong, tickling the back of Chris’s sweaty neck and making him shiver. His hole clamps and spasms with it, and all three let out a moan that echoes around the room. 

He’s going to die. With two dicks in his ass and no thoughts in his brain. His tombstone will read _“Here lies Chris “Motionless” Cerulli, fucked to death by his bandmates without his say-so. A horny idiot in death as in life.”_ And the worst part, the longer they move together, the less he cares. It takes a few fumbling minutes but they establish a rhythm, and Justin lets up his grip so Chris can lean up a little. Ricky’s hands are clutching him, digging in his nails as his teeth dig into his back, biting and sucking the tattooed flesh wherever he can reach as he thrusts. Justin braces his hands on Chris’s shoulders, supporting him, fucking up into him with his head thrown back and eyes closed. Chris twists his neck, tries to catch Ricky’s lips but they can’t reach. They just stare at each other, brown eyes meeting blue, and Chris is awash with too many feelings to even begin to understand. Ricky’s never fucked Chris before. Chris didn’t think Ricky had fucked _anyone_ before, thought he was strictly his subby little bottom. 

How wrong he was. His blue eyes are firey with determination, hands strong and thrusts firm, and Chris feels like putty in both their hands, but Ricky’s especially. He makes a mental note to follow up afterwards, see if this is something Ricky would be interested in repeating. And Justin; a sudden vision of Ricky fucking into Justin pops into Chris’s brain, and that’s it: game over, man. With a hoarse cry he comes _hard,_ spilling onto Justin’s belly. His hole clamps so hard onto the two dicks inside it that it hurts, and that must be the last straw for the others because suddenly they both thrust once more then still. For a second the room is just full of moans and groans and heated shouts, before Chris and Ricky both collapse onto Justin’s boneless body.

Minutes pass with no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate the forms on the bed are even still alive. Then Justin coughs, quietly.

“Guys, I can’t - I can’t breathe.”

Chris jabs him in the ribs with one bony finger. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t care.”

Ricky groans, says something about being too tired to move. Chris elbows him.

“You shut the fuck up too. I hate both of you.” His voice is muffled against Justin’s neck. He feels him smile. Ricky’s face breaks into a smile where it rests against Chris’s back.

“No, you don’t,” Ricky and Justin say in unison. And Chris has to admit it. He really doesn’t.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com


End file.
